Prisoner 63

Yellow Light

The following on this story, for how long it's been up, is incredible! Thanks so much guys! I apologise for the late update; I've been working through some irl issues. Thanks for your support and patience, enjoy!

Draco sat in silence. He was twisting his hands together in a childish way, a habit he'd carried with him from his childhood to his teenage years. His coat hung around his shoulders, the fire crackling beside him. He knew the armchair was beneath him, supporting his body, but it almost felt like he was floating. His whole body felt tingly and strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling all over him.

The yellow light of the fire was the only source of illumination in the otherwise dark room. It was usually dark at five in the morning, but Draco could hardly sleep, let alone stand to be in bed for another second longer. He'd gotten up and dressed, and had found his way to his usual place for reading.

He didn't feel like picking up a book, though. Didn't feel like doing much of anything. His stomach was twisted into knots and butterflies felt like they were flying through all of his organs.

Stop being foolish.

His father's words rung like the orders of some sort of tyrant king, and he flinched, forcing his hands to stop moving, fixing his posture, gazing forward as if on instinct. For a few moments, he didn't realise that his father wasn't even present in the room, let alone anywhere near him. Draco winced.

Today was the day. The day. The day he was coming home. The boy.

Home. This was to be his home. It was an odd thought, but not an unpleasant one. His mother had found it irritating simply referring to him as 'the boy', but Draco felt clueless as to what else he could call him. He most certainly wasn't calling him what everyone else did, 63. He wasn't a number, he was a person. A living, breathing person, with feelings and thoughts like the rest of them.

His mother had suggested that Draco give him a name, but that felt somehow wrong, like he was naming a dog. He didn't feel as if he had the right to. It made Draco nauseous, how no one else seemed to treat him like an actual human. His father viewed him as an experiment gone wrong, something to be utilised and used, like he was a weapon of sorts. The people at Azkaban thought he was a monster, nothing more. A psychopath.

Both couldn't be further from the truth. Draco had come to learn many things about him. He was gentle and pleasant, even though he spoke nearly no words. Draco had only heard two words from him, 'hello', when Draco arrived one morning, and 'no', when Draco was leaving. He seemed very attached to Draco, he always grew anxious and upset when Draco had to leave, whining and crying until Draco stayed ten minutes longer. He fed off affection and attention, he thrived off it.

Draco was desperately hoping that this environment wouldn't undo all his hard work. That the yelling, the fights, the tension wouldn't make him revert back to what he was when Draco first saw him. He couldn't wait to unlock those chains around him, to see him dressed in normal clothes and not a demeaning straitjacket, to take off that blindfold he was wearing. He couldn't wait to see what the rest of his face looked like.

He sat in silence for what felt like ten years, but the steady ticking of the clock reminded him that it was only about an hour. Each tick seemed to set his nerves further on edge, the sound seeming unusually and unrealistically loud.

Finally he heard movement in the hallway. Slow, long and light steps. His shoulders relaxed slightly, it was his mother. She was dressed in her nightgown, her long, greying blonde hair down, messy. She saw him, and gave a small, nervous smile. "Good morning."

Draco couldn't seem to form words, so he just smiled weakly and nodded.

"Are you excited?"

Her words made him frown. Excited? Sort of, it was a mix of anxiety and excitement, apprehension and curiosity. Who knew what would happen? He gave a half nod, causing his mother to sigh and sit down on the couch.